Nights Like These
by swallowfly
Summary: Some ramblings about nights on Serenity. oneshot, pre-movie.


**Heh. So, some rambling I felt like writing (I had three hershey bars and some time to kill, what do you expect?). Just a one shot about a night on Serenity, observations of each member of Serenity's crew. Reads a bit more like character analyses. Wash's is my favorite, but reviews would be awesome (pretty please? I'll love you forever), I wanna know what you think. First fanfic in two years.. gah, my writing has changed from Naruto-esque eaglelily2395 days. Set pre-movie.**

Nights like these, Jayne just sleeps. Lying spread over the bed, sheets tangled beneath him (abandoned, unnecessary), mouth hanging open slightly in the familiar, what-the-hell expression. His brow is creased as it is when trying to comprehend something lingering on the edges of his mental abilities, his left hand subconsciously reaches up every so often to scratch the stubble on his chin. His right is limp, vulnerable while not clutching its usual choice weapon. He's sweating, just a little, not quite noticeably. Lost, they've lost him deep into rest and peace from the day-in day-out hunt, pure relief until six AM verse-time. His dreams are mainly easy, their cast made up of hunters and prey, crew members and possibly even friends, lives past and present. Kaylee flits in and out a little more frequently than the others, each time his pulse quickens a tiny bit and his eyebrows turn in with concentration and frustration. He doesn't over-think, no. Doesn't much consider tomorrow or yesterday or pay day, just shrugs it all off and lets it be. Likes the hunt, the thrill of teetering on the knife's edge near death, the focus and intense pursuit of each job. Likes her smile, her stability, the curve of her cheek when she laughs (no, no, mustn't think that, keep it together, off limits). Jayne grunts, rolling over onto his back and slipping back into his peace. Jayne is simplicity, Jayne is rest.

Nights like these, Wash is a light sleeper. His yellow shock of hair is tangled, resting softly over his face, and his body keeps a certain amount of tension, as if the relaxed position is forced. In sleep, Wash is not quite so laid back. In sleep, Wash is tender, Wash is worried. His dreams are visited by plastic dinosaurs and chains binding him to a ground of a planet so polluted he cannot see the stars, repeated scenes of _"atmo in three, two, one"_ and very much too much red light. He hurts a little in there, dreams of a world where his plastic dinosaurs maybe could live, dreams of a world where dinosaurs pilot space ships and crash little plastic Wash-and-Zoe figurines around their dashboards. Zoe, too. Zoe hurt, Zoe limp on the floor and Wash tearing off her shirt to find blood, blood, blood (this is when his arm reaches over, clutching Zoe to him, afraid to let her go in case the dream should jump into reality and he would lose her). For a moment, in the dream, he wishes for out. He wishes to pick up their large comfy bed, to pick up their love and place it down on the planet where he cannot see the stars, where there is nothing but right there and she doesn't face danger. A world without very much too much red light and death. In awakeness, he would laugh a little, rationalize it all away and soar because it is what he loves. But sometimes, he forgets. Forgets whether it is better to fly free through the verse, to live bound tight to the prospect of death which makes life all that much more alive, or to live safe on that planet where he cannot see the stars, just him, and Zoe, and soft, simple security. He never knows. Wash is hope, Wash is tender and love.

Nights like these, Zoe remembers. Remembers and worries. She lies, tense, on her side, turned away from Wash so that he won't see her awake, though she knows he sleeps. Sometimes, she watches him breathe, wishes she, too, could relax and be the half of this marriage she wished she could, for Wash, envies and lusts after his laid-back attitude (though it drives her half to hell sometimes). Mainly, she turns away, holds herself together afraid of drifting into half-sleep, where the war creeps back into her thoughts and Wash sometimes wakes from the sound of her panicked breathing. Red, dark swollen red on the brown coats, great bursts of light but much more than that, the perpetual darkness and dampness, taciturn waiting, with nothing to listen to but the enhanced beating of frightened hearts. And then there are the foggy bits, where she doesn't admit to herself that she doesn't remember (can't have blocked it out, wouldn't have blocked it out, I'm stronger than that). So much seriousness, and then there was Wash. Wash, her light-cloud haven from pain. She won't let herself be afraid for him or for herself, she mustn't let herself be afraid. She must simply be determined. She has let this go. (I am not Mal) She breathes in a sharp breath, and releases it, drifting off and away from her dreams into light-cloud-haven. Zoe is sharp, she is rationality and determination.

Nights like these, Mal paces. Doesn't even bother retiring to his bedroom, just paces the brig, back and forth, back and forth, arguing with himself. No, agreeing with himself, arguing with all the Zoes and Inaras of the world. He should be over this. All of it. Paces faster, trying to leave the images behind him, but clings to them all the same, refusing to admit to himself that he takes a little perverse comfort in the anger, it gives him something to work for. Blood on brown coats, and Zoe's solemn face, dead, people dead and the clean ignorance of alliance troops thinking that they too are fighting for freedom. Having to kill _that. _ And he pulls himself away from those memories, forward in time to now and the present, worrying a little. Debates with himself whether River and Simon are a good idea, whether he could have stopped Inara. Inara. His pacing grows faster, until he's nearly hurling himself in each direction. He stops, running a hand through ruffled hair. Inara. He should have tried harder to stop her, whether he could've or not. His mind wanders to that happy place in which he and Inara have.. _something_, where she stops flying away and he can have her. And he reels his imagination back in, reminding himself of the impracticalities. Mal will not let himself dream. Mal is resigned to things as they are. Mal is serious on these nights, Mal is alone and Mal is focused.

Nights like these, Kaylee is humming. She accompanies Serenity's endless tune softly, at ease. Nights like this, Kaylee is thinking about sex. Thinking about (laughing a little with the irony) how she came to her Serenity, and things since. Thinking about holes, holes in her heart men could always fill if she needed them to. And so, she is thinking about Simon. Perpetually proper, courteous, adorable, gorram mind-splittingly sexy Simon. Something in her aches a little with want, which she suppresses, for once, transforms into simply wonder. She does a lot of that too, the wondering. She worries, a little, and doesn't quite understand why. The sting of his priority list clashing so painfully with her own makes her want to shrug the whole matter off, bury herself deep in Serenity's core and wait for the verse to end. But she doesn't, so she wonders, she dreams and fantasizes and imagines who he was, is, will be. And she fears, a little, for River and him. And wonders if she's falling in love. She presses herself up against the heat of Serenity in a metallic embrace, _"I have you, at least, ain't I?"_and slowly lowers herself to the floor, losing momentum fast. She slowly drifts off to sleep and serene dreams, aware, slightly, of his presence on the ship. Kaylee is caring, Kaylee is lust.

Nights like these, Simon is at peace. Peacefully contained within himself on his neat bed, pressed snugly between covers, a false sense of precarious security. His thoughts float back to before, to having his feet firmly on the ground, to light breezes and green grass. To passion, fixing people. And he is suddenly aware, in his sleep, of the lump in his throat, pit in his stomach, twinge of guilt for the lives he could have (should have?) saved. In consciousness, he doesn't allow himself to miss these things, to feel guilty. His dreams drift down the hall, to Kaylee, and he imagines the way her eyes crinkle when she grins, her customary dialect, and in sleep lets himself think of loving her, of more selfish chances for his own happiness. He imagines the way they both look at each other, acknowledging in their minds the other's feelings, but never quite doing much about them. Thinks, maybe, if he was still practicing, still a citizen of the alliance and if they'd met, perhaps, in a less dire context, they could have something beautiful. But that's too far, and he's yanked back to reality by the leash that is River. River, beloved child, means more. He tells himself he'd do it again, give away his life all tied up with ribbons and bows for her. And he probably would. He won't let himself face the depth of his worries for her as he fears they'll engulf him. Beloved sister, she means more. Simon is self-control, Simon is dreaming and Simon is doubts.

Nights like these, River examines. Dark eyes wide open circles, unblinking up at the ceiling. The ceiling is limit (lies), silver sky-lines she needn't follow, they all lead around again. Opens her mind-ear and considers emotions of Serenity, speaks to the ship in whispers (_good ship, be kind to us). _But more than that, self-examines. If she could, she would try to avoid doing this, but she cannot. There was a time when she distracted herself with mind-games and stories (no point), but now was sleep-times (no, don't sleep, no dreams do not want the dreams take them away, don't let them hurt me, Simon, don't make me sleep). Wrinkles in her mind, she can feel them (smooth, smooth, like glued fabric). There is emptiness there too, things missing (forgotten what has been lost, nothing fits), and some things not her own. Nerve, she's hit a nerve (the brain does not have nerves), small slender body shuddering a little as she falls into sleep. River is chaos, River is everything and nothing, River is alive.


End file.
